


A Fighter, Not A Lover

by Enfilade



Series: Contingency Procedures [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Awkwardness, Flirting, M/M, Making Out, Rodimus being Rodimus, Ultra Magnus being a dork, improper citation of the Tyrest Accord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1469002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ultra Magnus is used to supporting Rodimus.  This time, though, he hasn't got any training for the task Rodimus has in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fighter, Not A Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Set just after "Remain in Light." Spoilers for Remain in Light/ MTMTE up to issue 22. 
> 
> I've wanted to ship this for a while, but I could never think of a logical reason to get the stick out of Ultra Magnus' tailpipe long enough for anything to actually happen. Remain in LIght gave me a reason why Rodimus would be traumatized enough to look for comfort from Ultra Magnus, and Ultra Magnus would be shaken enough to accept. 
> 
> And so...here it is.

The online version of the Tyrest Accord was unavailable at this time.

Ultra Magnus stared glumly at the terminal mounted on his hab suite’s desk and hit the reload button. After a brief pause, he saw the House of Tyrest’s official seal appear at the top of the screen; then the notice began flashing in red. The online version of the Tyrest Accord was _still_ unavailable.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Tailgate had saved them all when he’d altered the Accord from Tyrest’s master terminal and repealed the whole thing. Now, it would take time for a specially selected team of Autobots to comb through the Accord in its entirety and remove the sections that Tyrest had added during his…less mentally stable…phase; everything discriminating against constructed-cold bots, for starters. Once the Accord had been returned to its previous glory, it would be uploaded again. Magnus wondered how amendments would be made in the future. Clearly allowing one mechanism to have complete control of the law was a mistake, no matter how flawless that mechanism might seem to be.

They were all showing their cracks, these days.

Magnus had never imagined a complete overhaul of the Tyrest Accord, but… _if_ such a thing were to be… _he_ should have been heavily involved, even if he wasn’t at the helm. Wasn’t he the Duly Appointed Enforcer? 

…No. Not any more.

These days, he was Minimus Ambus in a suit of armour that had never seemed bigger or heavier.

He’d tried to bring Rodimus’ more…egregious shenanigans to Tyrest’s attention, in the hopes that Tyrest could succeed where he had failed and convince Rodimus once and for all that there were _problems_ in the way the _Lost Light_ was being run. Problems that had needed fixing.

He still felt there were problems that needed fixing. But tattling to Tyrest had only added to them.

…And, Magnus admitted, obsessing about crooked badges and unaligned rivets in doorframes had been his way of coping with the challenges of peacetime. He should have spent more time with Rodimus and the crew, trying to improve the situation instead of diverting attention to room inspections and the intensity of the corridor lighting.

He realized this, and yet he was still sitting here in his quarters, reloading the Tyrest Accord site over and over again, waiting for the blueprints he’d used to build a whole new life to reappear. Even though he knew, in his spark, that there would be nothing in the Accord that could tell him what to do with himself now.

Still, he wasn’t yet ready to face the crew of the _Lost Light_ now that they knew that “Ultra Magnus” was only a legend, and he was nothing but Minimus Ambus. A nobody. A nothing.

How was he ever going to help Rodimus address the problems on this ship when he, 

himself, was a liar, eternally aspiring to an impossible standard? He’d fallen short as badly as Rodimus had.

Magnus felt a pang of guilt. He’d wanted to shame Rodimus, to underline for him how important it was to begin acting in a manner befitting a commander. He’d never intended to betray the Lost Light to a trio of insane madmen. He’d had no idea that Tyrest had lost his sanity, no inkling that Rodimus’ punishment might be anything worse than a reprimand—no way of foreseeing that people would die on Luna One. No court would convict him – but Magnus could not convince himself of his own innocence. He’d trusted Tyrest over Rodimus, and this was what had come of it.

_Rodimus._

The one-time Hot Rod, the erstwhile Rodimus Prime…the turbo revving young punk who’d stolen his ship and stranded him on Earth. The headstrong young captain who went haring off on an impossible quest. Infuriating and stubborn and impulsive and frustrating and so…so…

…so _Rodimus._

Forbidden images sprang to mind of sleek fenders and golden spoiler, of outrageous flame patterns inscribed on a streamlined hood. Of easy grins and casual touches, teasing optics, smirking lips. He had this way of laughing, shaking his head, and saying, “Oh, _Magnus_ ,” every time Magnus told him something he didn’t want to hear.

It was that voice that had played through Ultra Magnus’ mind every time he gave serious consideration to leaving the _Lost Light._

Ultra Magnus had no idea what would happen between him and Rodimus now, and he didn’t want to have to think about it. He’d rather hit reload on the…

A knock sounded on his door.

Ultra Magnus keyed in the code to the hallway surveillance cameras and saw the captain himself standing outside his door, shifting his weight from side to side. Even through the camera lens, Magnus could tell that Rodimus was not himself. Rodimus was never so still, so quiet. Rodimus was the type to pound on Magnus’ door and then override the access code; not the type to stand with his optics downcast, swaying back and forth while he waited for approval.

Ultra Magnus could not keep Rodimus waiting forever.

Best get this over with.

Ultra Magnus palmed his door access switch. The door stood open, revealing a changed Rodimus. His injuries had been repaired; at least the superficial ones. The dull look in his optics suggested a deeper rooted wound. He stood there, beaten, all thunder gone. “Hey,” Rodimus said, shuffling his foot across the floor. “Can…can I come in?”

Wordlessly, Magnus stepped back to allow him entry. Rodimus was, after all, the captain; regulations declared that private quarters were, well, _private_ , but Magnus had always appreciated the subheadings which gave officers the legal right to override that privacy. It seemed only right to show that appreciation by deferring to Rodimus now.

And it wasn’t right that Rodimus had waited for permission instead of taking it for granted like he’d always done before.

Rodimus looked around the room, and this, at least, was refreshingly normal. Rodimus always checked the place out as though some chairs or perhaps a couch might have magically appeared since his last visit. Magnus had no use for furniture that would only make clutter in his quarters. He had what he needed: a desk (its surface clear) with drawers for all his tools, a chair to use at the desk, a berth, a small end table (currently empty), a shelf of datapads. What more did he need?

Besides, he was almost certain that even if he did find a couch, Rodimus would continue to make himself at home on Magnus’ berth, just as he always did.

Magnus palmed the back of his chair, ready to turn it around, but a hand on his shoulder stilled him. “Sit with me?” Rodimus asked.

And Magnus sat obediently on the berth, not just because it was an order (it was really more of a request) but because it was delivered in a quiet, tremulous voice quite unlike Rodimus’ usual brash bluster.

He expected Rodimus to sit close beside him. Rodimus always did; it was as though the mech had no concept of personal space, or maybe it was just the way he was so _tactile_ with everyone. Ultra Magnus had gotten used to a palm on his forearm while Rodimus was speaking to him, a jab in the shoulder to get his attention, a thigh brushing his leg when they sat side by side at a table—and, of course, the casual way Rodimus would wrap an arm around his waist or across his shoulder blades to guide him over to look at something. Ultra Magnus had long ago given up on trying to change this behaviour.

Still, he hadn’t expected Rodimus to sit right _on_ him.

Rodimus just up and seated himself on Magnus’ lap, both knees tucked up against Magnus’ right side, his arms clutching Magnus’ shoulder blades. Ultra Magnus whuffed with surprise. He was used to Rodimus’ habit of touching his subordinates, but this contact was very intense, even for Rodimus.

Then Rodimus laid his cheek against Magnus’ chest and sobbed.

Oh, dear Primus. There was absolutely nothing in the Enforcer’s Handbook regarding appropriate protocol for this situation. Ultra Magnus had little experience dealing with emotionally upset mechanisms and absolutely none with regards to weeping commanding officers. Magnus wished Rodimus had gone to Rung, who’d be more equipped to address this…

…well, perhaps not if Rodimus wished to sprawl all over someone like this. Ratchet would be better; Ratchet’ s frame was sturdy enough to support Rodimus’ weight, and…

No. Ratchet would never have had time to spare. The mech worked longer hours than Ultra Magnus, and that was saying something.

So perhaps it was reasonable that Rodimus had come to Ultra Magnus, and that meant it now fell to Ultra Magnus to figure out what in the smelter he was going to do.

“There, there,” Ultra Magnus said awkwardly, patting Rodimus on the back. “There, there.”

Ultra Magnus had no idea what was “there,” or where “there” was, or why it was “there” instead of “here,” but he had watched enough Earth television to know that this was what was said when someone was upset, and hopefully Rodimus would find it comforting. Rodimus, at least, would recognize his intention – this crew was the reason why he’d been exposed to so much Earth entertainment in the first place.

Rodimus curled against him even tighter and rubbed his face on Magnus’ chestplate. “I screwed up, Magnus.”

And yes, yes he had, but it seemed the wrong thing to say. The Rodimus of only days ago would have blamed Luna One on someone else: on Tyrest, on Skids, on Magnus, on anyone but Rodimus.

But neither could Ultra Magnus deny it. That would not only be a lie; it would work against a revelation a long time in coming.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Magnus said at last, turning his clunky pats into longer, smoother strokes that traced the speedster’s streamlined armour. “We do our best, and we go on.” Advice he needed to learn to take himself.

“I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to make amends for this.” Rodimus lifted his head, his optics streaming with light. “Are you going to leave?”

The words hit like blades in Magnus’ tanks. “Do you want me to?”

If Rodimus kicked him off the Lost Light, where would he go? Back to Cybertron? Did Bumblebee have any use for an ex-Enforcer? Did the Autobots have any use for Minimus Ambus?

Rodimus shook his head. It took Magnus a moment to realize that the gesture was an emphatic negation; a moment more for Magnus to interpret the emotion that flooded his systems in response, as _relief._

“Do you…” Rodimus kept his helm pressed against Magnus’ chest as he spoke. “Do you want to go? Because I’m not going to make you put up with me as…”

“No,” Magnus rumbled, surprised to hear static in his voice. He’d have to get First Aid to look at his voxcoder. “No, I don’t want to go.”

Rodimus looked up at him and smiled hopefully. He shifted, sitting up straighter. Elevated on Ultra Magnus’ knees, their noses were close to the same height when Rodimus straightened his spinal strut.

Ultra Magnus felt an unfamiliar warmth in his core processor. Perhaps he and Rodimus weren’t completely washed up after all, he thought. 

Then Rodimus pressed his lips to Magnus’ mouth and Magnus stopped thinking about much of anything. 

Ultra Magnus felt his processor whirring uselessly as it attempted to parse the situation. Rodimus’ lips were pleasantly soft, pliable and warm, gentle against his own. A flicker of analysis finally registered in his brain.

Rodimus was kissing him.

Ultra Magnus’ first impulse was to protest that this situation shouldn’t be – but was that statement, in fact, true? Fraternization might be discouraged, but there was no outright law against it. Otherwise, Rodimus would have been arrested long ago for the number of times Ultra Magnus had caught him in compromising positions with various members of the crew. The Tyrest Accord only forbade this activity when one of the two parties involved did not give consent, either because he was unable to do so in accordance with the legal definition thereof, or because he’d registered an objection…

…Ultra Magnus realized, much to his surprise, that he had no desire to register any objection.

Unfortunately, right at that moment, Rodimus stopped. Ultra Magnus felt his breath hitch in his vents as Rodimus pulled his lips away.

The captain looked Magnus in the optics and smiled sadly. “No, huh?”

“No,” Magnus said, intending to negate Rodimus’ statement, but when the captain struggled to get up, Magnus realized he’d misinterpreted. “I mean, there is no need to stop,” he said as he folded his arms around Rodimus. His hold was loose, but Rodimus didn’t struggle very hard to get away.

“No?” Rodimus said, and this time his tone was somewhere between teasing and intrigued as he raised his optic ridges.

Ultra Magnus made a note that it really was a shame a single word, “no,” had so many possible meanings and then Rodimus’ lips were back on his and the critically important field of linguistic semantics (and possible legal repercussions thereof) was utterly forgotten. He slid his arms up Rodimus’ back, hoping to support his captain, holding him secure and comfortable while he…while he…

Rodimus drew back again, causing a sinking sensation in Ultra Magnus’ tanks. “You know,” he said, and though his expression suggested a casual offhand remark, his tone held deeper layers of meaning that Ultra Magnus could only guess at. “Usually if someone likes it, they’re a little more active.”

“Oh,” Ultra Magnus said. 

_Oh_. Understanding finally caught up with him. Rodimus was expecting him to reciprocate. 

Irritation came hard on the heels of revelation. Ultra Magnus found himself slipping back into lecture mode; a far more familiar and comfortable method of interaction. “You can hardly fault me for your failure to properly task your crew.”

“Huh?” Rodimus said.

There was something bizarre about scolding someone while he sat on your lap; something even more surreal about chiding your commanding officer. Ultra Magnus was used to the second; the first was just a minor curiosity to accompany it. “Do you remember when you sent Swerve and Whirl to scout on Carpex Minor?”

“Yeah….”

“How within two minutes of first contact, Swerve had told the natives all our strategic vulnerabilities?”

“It didn’t matter because…”

“…because Whirl opened fire and scared them off, yes, but default aggression is a Decepticon tactic and unbecoming of an Autobot unit.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Meanwhile, Hound was off duty at that time. _Hound_ , Rodimus. His _primary function_ is to survey alien worlds. But he spent the time sitting in the bar while Swerve and Whirl created a diplomatic incident.”

Rodimus actually put a finger over Magnus’ lips. Ultra Magnus, beyond shocked, felt silent at the sudden contact that was so personal and yet so far from the sensation caused by Rodimus’ lips…

He should be angry that Rodimus was shushing him. He would be angry. Later…

“I don’t get why we’re talking about Swerve and Hound now,” Rodimus said.

Ultra Magnus sighed. Rodimus was once again completely missing the point. “We’re talking about taskings.”

Rodimus shrugged.

Magnus vented hard with frustration. “If you need a job done quickly and well, you assign an expert to the task. If you want to scout an alien planet, you send Hound. If you want someone to kiss you, you should choose….oh, I don’t know…Sunstreaker or something.”

“You want me to kiss Sunstreaker,” Rodimus said dryly.

Ultra Magnus had seen Rodimus and Sunstreaker doing a lot more than kissing on the security cameras, but somehow his response came out as a strangled negation instead. “No! We’re discussing proper delegation, a large component of which is aptitude coupled with proper training, and I…” His voice hitched. “Have not had any advance notice to prepare for this assignment.”

“What assign…” Rodimus’ left optic ridge lifted. “Assignment, really?” he asked with a snicker.

“Duty?”

Rodimus snorted.

“Tasking.”

The _Lost Light_ ’s captain almost choked on laughter.

“You know very well what I’m referring to.” Magnus folded his arms across his chest; no easy task with Rodimus still on his lap. “You could have at least had the good graces to warn me in time to take instruction.”

Rodimus looked intrigued despite himself. “What, if I’d have said I wanted to make out with you, you’d have…what?”

“I suspect Rung and Ratchet have some experience in these matters,” Magnus said stiffly. Truth be told, he couldn’t imagine how either of them would react to such a request for instruction. Ratchet would probably scoff, say he was too old for such nonsense and send Magnus a pile of diagrams. Magnus liked diagrams, but he wasn’t sure diagrams would be particularly helpful when faced with a lapful of Rodimus.

Rodimus lifted his right optic ridge this time. “You want to kiss Rung.”

“No!”

And in fact, he didn’t. Rung might actually agree – on a wholly professional basis – and for some reason Magnus found the idea disturbing. Cold, somehow. Clinical. That was wrong. Magnus knew it intuitively, though he’d yet to figure out what was _right_.

“You want me to _order_ you to kiss Ratchet.”

“You’re not listening to me.” Which wasn’t new; why did he even expect anything different from Rodimus? “The issue is not _desire_ but _skill_ ; acquiring the ability to perform to standard when tasked to do so!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Magnus.” Rodimus leaned in close, whispering in Magnus’ audio in a way that sent bizarre little tingles down his spinal strut. “Never kissed anyone in the armour before, huh?”

His inexperience was utterly shameful. Salvaging the last shreds of his dignity, he huffed, “Ultra Magnus is not a figure of romance.”

“I’ve got news for you,” Rodimus murmured, and the hot breath from his mouth sent Magnus’ neck cabling into a cascade of hypersensitivity, attuned to every gust of air, every brush of Rodimus’ lips. “The issue absolutely is desire, and…” He paused for a moment, then curled his fingers around Magnus’ shoulder stacks and whispered, “Section four, subsection 8 b) of the Tyrest Accord…”

Magnus felt his spinal strut electrify. “…permits for on-the-job training in situations of urgent need…” _Oh, Primus._ Ultra Magnus’ fans went from low to high instantaneously, skipping all the settings in between.

“This is urgent need, Magnus,” Rodimus purred, as his hands traced the outlines of Magnus’ stacks.

Ultra Magnus tried to marshal a protest. It came out sounding suspiciously like a whimper. “I…don’t want to let you down…”

“Then pay attention and learn.” Rodimus’ fingers traced Ultra Magnus’ cheek. What was happening with his fans? They wouldn’t obey his commands to slow down. There was something wrong with his limbs, too, as though that electric bolt had turbocharged all his nerve conductors. He…

Rodimus’ nose brushed his. “Start slow, soft, and dry.” And then Rodimus’ lips were back on his.

 _Slow._ He could do that—it would give his processors time to think. He moved his lips apart ever so slightly.

 _Soft_. He could do that, too, though it was a bit more challenging. So much about apprehending criminals was hard and fast and merciless. He had to work against the natural impulse to mash his face against Rodimus’, shove the smaller mechanism over and pin him to the berth, trapping Rodimus’ hands over his head, leaning his weight on Rodimus when he writhed beneath….

 _Damn_ those fans of his!

 _Never mind._ He was kissing Rodimus—it was working…

 _Dry_. This order left Ultra Magnus confused. What was the opposite of…

Ultra Magnus’ head snapped back in surprise as he felt something soft and wet against his bottom lip.

Rodimus’ tongue retreated back into his mouth. “Don’t like it?”

“Er…just took me by surprise, that’s all.” He leaned forward. “Resume, please.”

Ultra Magnus tilted his head to accept the kiss. Yes, this was pleasant, and he was starting to get the hang of it. He folded his arms around Rodimus again, supporting his commander. The soft, wet presence returned and this time he did not shy away. Rodimus’ tongue brushed his lip and then retreated.

Ultra Magnus wondered if he should try it himself. He opened his mouth a little wider and moved his tongue experimentally, but nothing happened. 

A bit more…

Ultra Magnus felt his optics spark as he touched something moist and yielding. His tongue retreated back into his own mouth, but under his hands, Rodimus’ engine purred. The response gave him the courage to try again, and this time he recognized the feeling of his and Rodimus’ tongues meeting, sweeping over one another.

Rodimus trailed kisses over Magnus’ cheek, nibbling on the edge of his helmet. “With me so far?”

Magnus groaned—what was wrong with his voxcoder? “Some feedback would be appreciated…”

He wasn’t sure what Rodimus was doing—he wasn’t stopping, exactly, but he was out of kissing range, licking and nuzzling the edge of Magnus’ helmet. Apparently this was how one spoke and made out at the same time. Magnus wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, but…

He tried moving his hands on Rodimus’ back, and Rodimus twisted. “Up under the spoiler, Magnus…”

The retired Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord prided himself on his ability to follow instructions. He did as requested and was rewarded by Rodimus shuddering in his grip. “More,” the captain panted. “Please, Magnus…”

So, not a shudder of disgust, then. Magnus carefully noted the differences. Pressing towards him, not away; longer duration; less movement in the shudder itself. Interesting.

He curled his fingers and Rodimus mewled. “Oh, yes, that’s good…” The commander arched his back, as though he sought to intensify the sensation; then he collapsed against Magnus’ chest. “It’s a promising start, but, you could be better…”

Magnus felt his tanks sink.

“…it’d take a lot of training though.” Rodimus grinned. “You up for it?”

And even the Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord knew an invitation when he heard one. “Are you offering?” He dared to brush his knuckles over Rodimus’ cheek. “Because regardless of what you might think, I am _not_ at all eager to ask Rung or Ratchet for instruction.”

Rodimus grinned in reply, and leaned in again.

Ultra Magnus was not at all certain when his world tilted, but at some point later he realized that something was terribly, horribly wrong. 

Rodimus must’ve guessed from the sudden tensing of Magnus’ body, because he lifted his mouth from Magnus’ and asked, “Something wrong?”

Oh, Primus, was it ever. “This isn’t right.”

Rodimus huffed, but his hands tightened anxiously on Magnus’ arms. “You’re complaining now?”

“Rodimus, we are lying perpendicular to the orientation of the berth. Surely you recognize that this is an inappropriate utilization of room furnishings.”

Rodimus’ optics sparkled. “Wait. So you’re saying your objection isn’t me on top of you, or your hands all over my frame, or my tongue in your mouth, but _that we’re lying the wrong way on the berth?”_

“Furniture performs best when used in accordance with the instruction manual and _you are laughing at me_.”

“Berths come with an instruction manual?” To his credit, Rodimus looked as though he were trying to swallow back laughter, but he failed. Miserably.

“I would tell you to read yours, but it seems as though my primary function on this ship is to keep you in compliance with proper procedure,” Magnus said gently as he stroked Rodimus’ back.

The red speedster looked surprised. “So, uh, if I let you up so we can get on this thing the right way…we can keep going?”

Ultra Magnus didn’t recognize the sensation in his systems. He sent a query as he asked, “That depends on whether you’re satisfied yet that I’m able to kiss you at or above expected performance levels.” His ping came back, defining the feeling as _playful_.

Huh.

Rodimus grinned teasingly. “I dunno, I have pretty high standards.”

“Then you’d best let me up so we can resume the lesson.”

“Properly oriented on the berth,” Rodimus agreed solemnly as he eased off of his second-in-command. 

Ultra Magnus felt a bit awkward—and strangely cold—as he moved ninety degrees, his head on his pillow, his feet at the end of the berth as they should be. It was comforting to feel his world fall back into order, but more comforting yet to reach up and pull an unresisting Rodimus back on top of him. 

Ultra Magnus ran kisses up his commander’s neck, wondering how in the pit the chaos that always followed in Rodimus’ wake could feel more desirable than the perfectly controlled precision of his solitude.

Rodimus arched his back strut and groaned. “Hey…what name do you want me to scream…”

Ultra Magnus had not realized that screaming was going to be involved, and he promptly shoved potential reasons for such vocalization out of his active thought processor. Best to concentrate instead on….

“Ultra Magnus is fine,” he whispered.

Rodimus drew back. “Are you sure? Because I know…I’m not just here with some legend. Some ultimate enforcer. I’ve spent the past eighteen months with…with _you_ , and…”

“And you’ve called me Ultra Magnus,” he replied, nuzzling Rodimus’ cheek. He really was getting better at this. His hands reached up for Rodimus’ spoiler.

“Okay,” Rodimus said, and his voice came out on a sigh. “Just so you know I realize you’re Minimus Ambus in armour and I still want to…still want…”

Ultra Magnus made a note never to brush Rodimus’ spoiler when the captain was on duty. It seemed to rob him of all coherency. Magnus didn’t actually want to stop playing with it now, but he figured it was impolite not to at least let him finish his sentence.

Rodimus whined a little when Magnus returned his hands to his captain’s back, but he did regain the ability to speak. “Hey, does it feel better for you outside the armour?”

Ultra Magnus had embarrassingly little material for comparison, so it was fortunate he could answer honestly. “The armour’s deep-wired, Rodimus. I can feel everything with just as much sensitivity as if it were my true frame.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Rodimus relaxed against him. “Because if you ever want to, I _would_. It’s just…”

Ultra Magnus – Minimus Ambus – stilled the breath in his vents and waited. _Just what?_

“…I’m kind of used to you like this.” Rodimus kissed him thoroughly before continuing and Magnus felt the air whistle out of his vents as he relaxed. “Someone who supports me. But if you ever need me to…I’ll do it.”

“That offer is greatly appreciated, Rodimus. Perhaps some day.” He was pleased that Rodimus was considerate enough to offer, rather than simply presuming everything was always solely about him.

“Yeah,” Rodimus agreed. “Someday.”

It was an intriguing notion. Clearly he’d be crushed under Rodimus’ chassis if he tried this position out of his armour. They’d have to switch positions, which was an interesting thought, but something a bit too daring for Magnus to seriously consider right now. He ought to get used to this, first.

He could get used to this, in fact. Surprisingly easily. He reached up and returned Rodimus’ kiss.

“In the meantime,” he murmured, “we really ought to focus on the here and now.”

Ultra Magnus seemed to remember Rodimus agreeing, right before their tongues met again, and coherent thought once more faded away.


End file.
